


Blowin' Smoke

by charliedontsurf



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Getting Together, M/M, Memes, What Have I Done, cursing, diner au, so many memes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 12:16:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13294701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliedontsurf/pseuds/charliedontsurf
Summary: Nothing sets the mood like a little Tom Jones.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Kacey Musgraves song of the same name, but it has absolutely nothing to do with the song other than how they both take place in diners. Everything I know about diners and jukeboxes is sourced from country songs and Clint Eastwood movies, so I apologize for any mistakes. Beta'd by my dearest, msculper. Bonus points if you can guess the nameless other characters!

Rob wasn't a music kinda guy. If pressed, he'd say his favorite artist was Vladimir Vysotsky, because nothing deterred potential conversation like an admitted preference for Soviet-era Russian music. If tortured, he'd say his favorite artist was The Rolling Stones, because that was mostly true. Completely independent of Rob's music tastes (or lack thereof) was his ability to hear. And currently, he was sure that the jukebox at the diner where he worked had just played "What's New, Pussycat?" for the third time in a row.

He stared suspiciously at the jukebox. It sat there, like it always had. Tom Jones continued crooning. No one else in the diner seemed to notice, but the only other occupants were an old man who was clearly deaf and some hipster guy aggressively sipping an empty glass of water that was clearly just ice. It was possible Rob was mistaken. After all, he had just finished with the hungover breakfast rush, which was enough to make anyone insane.  

Rob returned to wiping the counter. Some asshole had left thirty eight cents in tip, his number, and a pile of crumbs. God knows why anyone would want to go out with a guy who wouldn’t eat over his plate and tips… Rob did the math. About 2.0%. Had it not been for the crumbs, Rob would have hit his head on the countertop. He wasn’t getting out of this godforsaken town if these fuckers kept tipping like that. Maybe, Rob mused as he swept the crumbs into his rag, he could fall and get some worker’s compensation for a concussion.

He turned to rinse the rag in the sink. When he turned back, the hipster-looking guy was perched on Crumb-Boy’s stool. Tom Jones launched into the final chorus.

“Hey. Uhhhh… Rob?” The guy said, squinting to read off Rob’s name tag. Rob had written his name as small as possible, half out of spite for company policy and half out of spite for customers who wanted to talk to him and pay him money. So, fully out of spite.

“What.”

“Do you serve, uhhhh, coffee here?” asked the guy, awkwardly pulling his beanie over his ears.

Rob rolled his eyes so hard he thought he might become comatose. “Yes. This is a diner.”

“No, yeah, but do you serve like… _coffee_ here?”

Rob checked the clock. It was only 11 am, and his shift wasn’t over until 4. The jukebox paused. For two seconds, the diner was completely silent, save for the strange, arrhythmic tapping of the hipster dude on the counter.

The jukebox whirred as it selected the next song. Rob and the hipster turned to face the jukebox. Rob held his breath as the needle scratched against the record. One second. Two.

A bouncy bassline filled the empty space. _What’s new, pussycat, whoa_ , sang Jones aggressively.

Rob took a deep breath. He took another deep breath. By the fourth inhale, Hipster Guy had turned back to Rob, his face a strange mix of concern, apology, and glee. Rob narrowed his eyes and inhaled once more, prepared to ask this stranger in his most scathing manner about the mysterious, repeating jukebox.

“Can I get uhhhh… _boneless_ coffee?” Hipster Guy interrupted.

 _Pussycat, pussycat, I love you, yes I do_. Rob dropped the wet rag directly onto Hipster Guy’s fucking fingerless-gloved hands, which had resumed tapping the counter. He opened his mouth once, twice, to release one of his usual life-ruining comments, the ones he usually had to fight to keep back. None came. Rob grabbed the counter, afraid his knees would give out, and hung his head.

The old man, facing the wall, clacked his spoon against his cup. The jukebox played. Rob mustered the strength to lift his head. Hipster Guy had gotten closer and was now peering worriedly at Rob. “Hey man, are you alright? It was just a joke, ya know? Actually, it’s a meme –” 

“I know what a fucking meme is, you fucking hipster,” Rob snapped. He snatched the rag off of Hipster Guy’s hands. “And because I know what a fucking meme is, I also know that you’ve probably rigged that fucking jukebox over there to play that fucking song a fuckton of times with one “It’s Not Unusual” in the middle to fucking spice things up.”

Hipster Guy looked amazed. “You’re not wrong, but listen, I’ve been coming here so often, man, and that’s more words than I’ve ever heard you say. And they were all in a row, too!”

“What’s your name?” Rob said, rummaging under the counter. No pens in the fucking pen jar, of fucking course. He was going to have _words_ with Ben later about giving them away to hapless students with gentle baby eyes (Ben’s words, not his). Rob turned around to look in the back cupboards, and then bent to look in the lower cabinets, where they kept the holiday decorations that Ben insisted they have.

Rob stood up triumphantly, golf pencil in hand, turned to face Hipster Guy, and immediately grimaced as all of the blood rushed from his head. He closed his eyes against the spinning sensation. When he opened them, Hipster Guy was standing as close as possible to the counter, tomato red. Rob made eye contact and then watched in fascination as Hipster Guy became even redder and sat heavily, only to nearly fall off the stool.

“I still need your name,” said Rob brusquely, brushing off the strange behavior and reaching for an order ticket.

“Uh, Abe. Abe Woodhull.” Woodhull took off his beanie and ran a hand through his hair.

“Is that short for Abraham?”

“Yeah, but no one calls me Abraham, which is good, ‘cause I hate it, and it reminds me of my father, and he’s…”

Rob stopped listening. He wrote intently for a minute, looked up once, and resumed writing. Woodhull stopped monologuing and leaned over the counter, twisting to try to read Rob’s cursive right side up.

“What does this even say?”

“Abraham Woodhull. Five foot short. Brown hair. Big ears. Should not be allowed near the jukebox at all costs. Should not be allowed to order verbally. Level 5 disturbance.” Rob stopped writing and found Woodhull half on the counter, contorted like a paperclip to read over Rob’s shoulder while keeping his feet on the stool.

“Hey, wait a minute, I’m five foot seven! That’s not short!”

Rob raised a single eyebrow. Woodhull grinned slightly and nonchalantly slid off the counter. “But really, I’m not that short. And how would one even order nonverbally? And is a Level 5, like, arbitrary, or do you really have a ranking system?”

“You’re short. You point. And no, it’s not arbitrary. It’s based on how much I want to call the cops. And right now?” Rob cocked his head meaningfully towards the jukebox, which had just begun the song again. “I’ve already dialed nine one.”

“No way. You didn’t even reach for the phone!”

Rob could feel a headache setting up shop between his temples. He carefully placed the rag on the counter so that he wouldn’t throw it in Woodhull’s face. “You’re right. I didn’t. But I’m giving you thirty seconds to pay your bill and leave before I do.

Woodhull’s eyes widened. He dashed back to his table and came back with his dirty plate, empty water glass, and jacket. Rob watched as he shook the jacket until a wallet fell out, then bent down and scooped it up, nearly missing hitting his head on the counter.

“There, uh, fifteen for the meal, I think, so here’s a twenty, keep the change. See you ‘round, Rob.” With that, Woodhull grabbed the water glass, dumped the rest of the ice into his mouth, and ran out the door.

Rob stared after him. He held the twenty up to the light and determined that it looked mostly real. He put the dishes in the dishwasher and went to wipe down the table with trepidation, only to find that it was relatively spotless. He picked up Woodhull’s driver’s license from where it laid on the sticky diner floor. He stared at the door again.

 _It's not unusual to see me cry, oh I wanna die_ , said Tom Jones.

“What the fuck,” said Rob.

 


	2. Chapter 2

This was all Ben’s fault, somehow. If Ben didn’t have that fucking _thing_ with Baby Eyes, Baby Eyes wouldn’t keep coming to their diner to flirt. And if Baby Eyes didn’t frequent their diner, it’s a lot less likely he would’ve brought that asshole. And if that asshole had never set foot through the door, well, Rob wouldn’t be having this problem.

“You can’t call him an asshole, Rob. You’ve only met him once and he tipped well. And stop calling Caleb Baby Eyes. I literally said that once – once! – and I was drunk.” Ben paused thoughtfully. “Besides, this town is literally only 1000 acres big. Everyone stumbles in here at some point.”

“I hate you, you know that? You’re the only person I know who fucking measures in acres. Goddamn FFA kids.”

“Oh, sorry I couldn’t be like you and be captain of the checkers club.” Ben grinned at Rob’s mutinous expression. “Yeah, if you’re gonna play dirty, I’m gonna play dirty. Remember that I knew you in high school. I have so much dirt on you.”

“You’ll have _so much_ dirt on you if you don’t shut your mouth,” mocked Rob. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, eyeing the diner floor, empty save for the booth where Caleb sat with his… companion. “Listen, Ben, I told you what he did, right? He thinks he’s a fucking memelord! I don’t want to deal with him. Just go give him his license alright? And that way you have an excuse to talk to Ba- Caleb.”

“Hm. I don’t really think I need an excuse. Looks like you’ll just have to suck it up, Rob.” And with that, Ben vaulted over the counter and made a beeline towards Caleb.

Rob grabbed a rag and started wiping the smudges Ben’s hand had made on his spotless countertop. “Fuck him," Rob muttered. “He wouldn’t fucking do that if he didn’t want to seem tall and athletic and impressive. He’s always anxious about looking unprofessional except when he’s being fucking gay.”

“Is this a bad time? ‘Cause I can leave, or just go sit down or something?”

Rob glanced in the direction of the voice. Of fucking course.

“No, it’s perfectly fine,” said Rob saccharinely, lying through his teeth. “Can I get you something, Woodhull? Remember, pointing only.”

“No, I, uh, well Ben? Over there?” Woodhull pointed behind him to where Ben sat, nearly in Caleb’s lap. Ben waved and turned back to his conversation with Caleb, who was gesturing animatedly with a large, square piece of cardboard. “Yeah, Ben. He told me that you had my license, ‘cause I guess I dropped it here, like, two days ago or something?”

“You don’t know when you lost your license?”

“I don’t drive, bro. Anyways, he said you would only give it to me if I beat you in a game or some shit?”

“Oh, did he? Excuse me.” Rob made to move towards the gate, which is how normal people leave the counter area, Tallmadge, when Woodhull’s hand shot out and grabbed his forearm. Rob looked down. His hand was warm and surprisingly large and calloused when he wasn’t wearing hipster gloves.

“Oh, sorry, shouldn’t have grabbed you, I know, I just…” Woodhull trailed off. “I need my license, okay? If I have to go to the DMV to get a new one, my dad will hear about it ‘cause he works in traffic court and I guess everyone involved in automotive bureaucracy knows each other. He’ll give me shit about being irresponsible and a disappointment, etc etc, and I don’t really want to hear it.”

“No, uh, it’s okay,” stammered Rob. Woodhull’s fingers were still clasped around his arm. “I, um, understand about fathers and such.”

“Great.” Woodhull removed his hand from Rob’s arm to run a hand through his hair. Rob felt cold and busied himself unrolling his shirt sleeve. “I’ve been informed you’re a checkers savant. However, I’ll have you know that I, myself, am a checkers savant, and I look forward to winning my license back.”

“You know, I could – “

“I won’t hear it, Rob. When do you want to play?”

Rob sighed and checked the clock. 4:20 pm. “We close at five tonight. We can play after that.”

“Excellent. Do you, uh, want some help with that?” Woodhull asked, gesturing to where Rob’s fingers fumbled with the wrist buttons on his shirt.

“Uh. Sure.” Rob held out his arms, feeling more childlike than he ever did when he was an actual child. Woodhull deftly slipped the buttons through their holes and tugged on each shirt sleeve for good measure.

“There. Much better.” Woodhull hopped off the stool and slid into the booth opposite Ben and Caleb, who were now having a deeply serious conversation, if their bent heads and whispers were anything to judge by. Woodhull gave Rob a thumbs up when he saw him still watching. Rob flushed and turned away.

* * *

The last forty minutes of Rob’s shift passed slowly. There was one customer just before close, a harried woman who ordered a large espresso to-go. Rob hated to tell her that the diner wasn’t the sort of place with disposable cups, but it turned out not to be an issue when she chugged her coffee and ran out the door.

“Weird, amirite? I see her around sometimes, but I have never seen her smile.” Woodhull leaned against the counter.

“Okay,” said Rob, stacking clean plates in the cabinets above the oven.

“You know who else I have never seen smile?” asked Woodhull, now grinning a little. “You, Rob. Are you ever happy, man?”

“Listen, Woodhull, I’ll be happy when I kick your ass in checkers.” Rob pulled his checkers set from under the counter and carefully placed it in front of him. “Go set it up.”

“Way harsh, Tai. I thought we were on a first-name basis.”

Rob made a shooing motion with his hands and turned back to his dishes. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Woodhull moved to a booth, opened the box, and gently began setting out pieces.

“You’re just wishing he treated you that sweetly.”

Rob whirled around to face his worthless coworker. “Fuck you, Ben,” Rob said sincerely. He took the nasty dishrag from the sink and pushed it into Ben’s chest. “You can finish cleaning up.”

“This is Gucci, Rob!”

Rob ignored him and climbed over the counter. Woodhull was waiting with the board, red side out. “I morally dislike red, I hope you don’t mind.”

“I literally don’t care. Rules, Woodhull?”

“Best two out of three. I get my license if I win, and you have to call me Abe. You can keep my license if you win.”

“Why would – nevermind. I hope you know I’m not going to lose.”

* * *

Woodhull was not bad, and not bad by Rob’s standards meant good. Good enough to take the first game handily, forcing Rob to make a dramatic comeback in the second game. They took a brief coffee break before the third game and watched Ben and Caleb fuck with the jukebox, eventually playing that goddamn Rick Astley song.

“I swear they’re two years old,” said Woodhull.

“Collectively,” amended Rob. “Are you ready to lose, Woodhull?”

“Why should I be ready for the impossible, Rob?”

And so they began. It was a tense back-and-forth. Every time Rob moved towards an opportunity, Woodhull was already there, counterattacking. It’s like Woodhull is fucking spying on my brainwaves, Rob thought, and then thought ‘Fuck you’ in case it was true.

Eventually, however, Rob had Woodhull metaphorically backed into a corner, literally surrounded by kings. The diner was still. Rob surveyed his options carefully. Woodhull was tapping on the table. A light humming noise, interspersed with claps, emanated from the general area of the jukebox. Momentarily distracted, Rob leaned out of the booth and looked down the diner aisle. Ben and Caleb were standing on either side of the jukebox, tense with anticipation. The humming noise swelled.

Rob nearly fell out of the fucking booth when the horns came in. Ben and Caleb dabbed simultaneously. Woodhull started laughing.

“What the fuck guys? Is this that fucking meme song?” Rob shouted over what certainly sounded like the fucking meme song.

“It’s called ‘Shooting Star,’ Rob,” said Woodhull, still laughing.

“How – how the fuck did they get it to play on the jukebox? It only plays records!”

“Caleb owns the vinyl, actually. It’s your turn.”

“Fucking fuck. Okay.” Rob picked up a piece and moved. It was not the right move. Within four moves, the tables had turned completely. Woodhull beat him soundly.

“Fuck.”

“My license?” Woodhull held out a hand.

“Here, I literally never wanted to keep your license anyways, Woodhull,” Rob said grouchily.

Woodhull raised an eyebrow.

“Abe. Whatever. Honestly, what was I even going to do with your license?”

“Oh. Uh. Well, Ben said you weren’t going to give it back to me unless I beat you at checkers. And he said if I lost, you would keep it until I bought you coffee. But I didn’t want those to be the terms cause –” Abe gestured to the diner “– you literally work in a place that sells coffee.”

“Interestingly, Ben made all of that shit up.”

“Oh.”

“Oh.”

They sat there for a moment, studiously avoiding eye contact. _I’m in love with a shooting star_ blared out of the jukebox speakers.

Abe rubbed the back of his neck. “So, you, uh, never wanted me to buy you coffee?”

Rob considered him for a moment. Five foot short. Brown hair. Big ears. Fluent in memes. _Very_ good at checkers. “I… never said that. But maybe, since I lost, and I work at a diner… I could buy you a drink instead?”

“Sounds good,” said Abe, and he began putting away the game. Rob passed him the pieces and watched as he meticulously folded the board.  

“No one’s ever been able to figure out how to get everything back in the box before,” Rob blurted out, embarrassed.

“I’m just good like that. Here.” Abe gave Rob a hand out of the booth. Rob took it and didn’t let go, dragging Abe over to the counter so he could put the game away. Straightening, Rob surveyed the diner. The floor was clean, the dishes were done, and all the equipment was off save the jukebox. Caleb and Ben were slow dancing to the meme song. Rob placed the keys on the counter and tiptoed out of the diner, Abe in tow.

The streetlights washed the pavement in golden light. Rob stopped and smiled.

“I can’t believe you asked me for boneless coffee, you fucking memelord.”

“Worked, didn’t it?” Abe grinned in response. “C’mon, I know the best spot to get absolutely lit.”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all.”


End file.
